


Thorn, A Sylvari's Tale - Chapter 5

by Mozu



Category: Guild Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:25:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozu/pseuds/Mozu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Guild Wars 2 novel in progress.</p><p>Apologies for the wonky formatting - you can read the whole thing, properly formatted, over at http://bearzusmash.wordpress.com/thorn/</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorn, A Sylvari's Tale - Chapter 5

**THORN, A SYLVARI’S TALE – Chapter 5**

**S.E. OFSTEIN**

Dappled autumn sunlight fell upon a carpet of fallen leaves—reds, purples, and golds turning crisp and brown even this early in the season, and the last remaining holdouts clung tenaciously to the nearly bare branches above, rattling in the breeze.

                A slim, muscular figure clad in supple, deep blue leather crept from tree to tree, slipping in and out of shadow with barely a rustle. In her wake, a massive black lion padded cautiously along. His bright green eyes scanned the forest, wary of an ambush but hoping for prey.

                The sylvari froze suddenly and sank to one knee, gesturing with her free hand. She spied something far ahead, through the curtain of grey-brown tree trunks and drifting leaves. Squinting into the afternoon sun, she nocked an arrow to her string.

                _A buck? No. No, that’s no buck._

Her mouth set in a hard line as she turned to the lion, and emerald eyes stared deep into her own, awaiting her command. She couldn’t resist ruffling his mane with a grin once before moving out, the fearsome cat at her heels, as silent as its master, and they made for the cover of a low tumble of boulders as quickly as they dared.

                _Another, and there—one more,_ Mozu noted the centaur’s positions as she peeked above the rocks while Boy worked the earth with daggerlike claws, anxious to be set loose.

“Haitei, go,” she hissed, and he was a blur, leaving a cloud of dirt and leaves behind. Mozu rose and peppered the two closest centaur, riddling the straw-and-log dummies with feathered shafts. Boy was happily pulling the third apart in the distance when a blunted arrow clattered off the rocks next to Mozu. She vaulted over the nearest boulder as a second and third arrow struck the spot where she’d been crouched seconds before.

                “Haitei! On me!” she called. The lion abandoned the centaur helmet he had been playing with and sprinted back toward her, snarling as he ducked under an incoming arrow. He skidded to a stop as he reached cover, panting.

                Mozu pointed off to her left as more arrows rained in from a different direction.

“Haitei! Quiet! Go!” She hissed again.

The lion crept away into the deepening shadows, and as Mozu stood to loose a barrage of her own, he was gone. She reached over her shoulder for another shaft and felt around, grasping only air, and ducked behind the cover of the boulders once more.

_Note to self: bring more arrows._

She slipped the heavy pack from her shoulders and tossed it as far as she could from one knee. An arrow struck the pack in mid-air, and she reached over the rocks, grabbing at one of the blunted shafts, when she heard a muffled thud in the distance followed by laughter.

Mozu shook her head and laughed as she retrieved her pack, and went about recovering her own arrows from the dummies. When she found Linebaugh, he was sitting cross-legged on the ground with Boy sprawled half in his lap and purring loudly. Linebaugh grinned up at her, and she reached across the blissful feline to throw her arms around the norn’s neck.

“Interesting ‘welcome back’ you set up,” Mozu grinned back. “Got bored without me around? Made some centaur friends to keep you company?”

“Well, all made’a straw an’ sticks an’ logs, I figgered they’d stand in just fine with ya gone.”

Mozu dropped her pack and flopped down next to him. She rested her head upon Linebaugh’s arm.

“Oho, lookie this, my two favorite critters.”

“Quiet, old man.”

Linebaugh chuckled, “Welcome home, lass. How’d things go out there?” He pointed toward the mountains with his chin.

Mozu had taken the lion and disappeared into the forest for four nights, planning to range far up into the foothills.

“Oh, fine, fine.” She nodded casually, but was unable to stifle the huge smile that spread across her face. “Good. Better than good! Great! It felt amazing to be out there, relying on myself and my own skills—taught by the best, of course—” Linebaugh smiled smugly at no one in particular, “and Mister Kitty here.”

She sighed happily as Boy opened his mouth in a huge yawn. “I felt . . .  renewed.”

Linebaugh smiled again as he scratched vigorously at a spot behind the lion’s ear.

“We camped above a stunning waterfall on our first night, and we saw a magnificent stag with a rack that you wouldn’t believe—”

“I seen a lotta nice racks in my time, lass,” Linebaugh waggled his eyebrows and leered.

Mozu slapped his arm, and otherwise ignored him, “So many incredible things—I just couldn’t believe my eyes.” Her smile slowly faded, and she rested her head upon Linebaugh’s arm again.

“Mmm?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“We, uh, had a bit of an adventure, too,” she mumbled. Mozu hesitated for a moment, then reached over and rooted around in her pack. She held something out to Linebaugh and he took it with a quizzical expression—a long length of blonde hair bound with a silver clasp covered in runes.

“Tha fuck?”

“A shaman, I think—stark, raving mad. We sort of stumbled upon them in the middle of some ritual with a wolf’s heart, and he noticed us.”

“A shaman? Them?” Linebaugh peered into the distance as if considering something, and looked at her angrily. “Were you up above the godsdamned snow-line?”

Mozu cringed and nodded, unable to meet his gaze. Linebaugh cuffed her on the back of the head roughly.

“I TOLD you to stay down below the snow, didn’t I? Well?”

She nodded sheepishly.

“But you went up anyway.”

She nodded again, and looked at him imploringly, “I’ve never seen snow before! It was so . . . I mean I just couldn’t . . .  resist . . .” Mozu trailed off under Linebaugh’s glower.

“Ok, so, lemme get this right. First, ya disobeyed my ONLY condition fer lettin’ ya out tha door on yer own. Then ya found yerself—lemme guess—a Son o’ Svanir shaman—”

“And friends. And . . . things,” she added lamely.

Mozu could hear Linebaugh’s teeth grinding together. He took a deep breath.

“And instead o’ running tha fuck away, ya fought them? Did tha cold up there freeze that sap runnin’ in yer veins an’ make ya completely stupid?” He shrugged Mozu and the lion off and stood, turning his back on them.  With one angry look back, the cat padded off, and silence hung in the air between Mozu and Linebaugh.

“What tha hell was I s’poseta do if ya didn’t come back?” he asked in a very quiet voice.

Mozu leapt to her feet and threw her arms about his waist, burying her face in the small of his back. “I’m so sorry.”

Linebaugh stood silently for a moment, and put one huge hand over hers. “Sorry don’t bring the dead back, lass.”

 

After a quick dip in the hot spring, Mozu wrapped herself in one of the enormous towels and joined Linebaugh in the kitchen at the back of the house. He attended to a heavy iron frying pan that sizzled deliciously over a low flame. The smell made her mouth water, and the heat of the kitchen was making her decidedly sleepy.

“Where _did_ you learn to cook like this?” She stood up on her chair and peeked over his shoulder into the pan. “Your wife?”

Linebaugh snorted and took another sip from the wine glass at his elbow. “Hildur had two cookin’ styles. Burnt, or raw.”

He covered the pan, wiped his hands on his apron, then reached into a cupboard overhead and pulled down a second glass. Setting it before Mozu, he poured a sylvari-sized measure of wine before taking a seat across from her.

“Let’s get one thing outta the way right now, lass. Either ya follow my instructions, even if ya think I’m bein tha biggest dick in tha world, or we part ways. I ain’t teachin’ ya for a laugh, an’ I ain’t about ta see another family member die.”

“F-family?”

Linebaugh turned bright red instantaneously, and sidestepped the topic. “Second”, he coughed, “What tha hell’s a ‘hitay’?”

“What?”

“Ya were yellin’ somethin’ at Boy—I couldn’t figger out what. An’ learn ta whistle already, dammit.”

“Oh.” She picked up the glass and swirled the wine around. “You told me that I could call him whatever I wanted _‘long as it weren’t Fluffy or some shit’_. Haitei is his name—Boy’s name, I mean. I found it in a book about Cantha in Sir—in my room. It means ‘king in exile’, and I read about lions in another book. It said that big, male lions like him would lead a pride and—”

“I know how a lion works.” He made a face, “What is it with you an’ Cantha anyway?”

Mozu shrugged and blushed.

“I reckon it’s a pretty good name, though. Hell, I could never come up with somethin’, but I always figgered it’s be somethin’ Elonian, since that’s where I found hi—“ Linebaugh stopped himself and quickly swallowed a generous gulp of wine.

“What?! You’re been to Elona?!”

Coughing and wheezing, Linebaugh held up a hand. Finally he replied a bit overenthusiastically, “No, no, I said _‘Ello there!’ when I found ‘im’_ . . . in Kryta . . . is what I said.”

Silence filled the room as Linebaugh leapt to his feet and made a show of doing something or other with the frying pan. Mozu’s eyes bored into his back.

“You’re a worse liar than I am!” she pointed accusingly. “There are no lions in Kryta! How did you get to Elona? _Why_ did you go to Elona? How—“

Linebaugh put the lid back on the pan with a clang and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Don’t give me your ‘ _Not now, sometime soon_ ’!” Mozu drummed her palms on the tabletop. 

“FINE. Fine. Spirits save me,” Linebaugh held his hands up and sighed. “After dinner.”

Mozu grinned wickedly, but the smile faded back into sheepishness again as Linebaugh reached into a pocket on his apron and tossed the silver-bound ponytail down in front of her. He pointed at it.

“Explain.”

Mozu took a swig of wine and ran a finger across the engraved runes on the silver band.

“We were up above the snow-line due to my poor judgment and curiosity,” she began, “when, come nightfall, we saw a light in the distance, and heard strange noises.

“The first thing I thought of was what you said on that first night we spent here. Something coming down from the mountains that a man wouldn’t want to fight alone . . . or something like that, anyway.”

“Okay, so you went to scout,” Linebaugh leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, eyeing her severely.

“So we went to scout. There was a camp by a little brook, and a bonfire, and totems with skulls and stuff on them, and this one feller, er, this one norn dressed very ornately, chanting some nonsense about ‘The Dragon’, and three other norn sort of chanting along occasionally—”

Linebaugh motioned for her to get on with it.

“So, they cut a wolf open and fed the heart to the fire—it was terrible to watch—and then this _thing_ made of ice coalesced from vapor and—”

“This is the part where you say ‘ _and then we made fer home.’_ ”

“Well, with the chanting, and the noise of the brook, and the dark, and taking into account that they’d have no night vision due to the bonfire and another campfire . . . that’s when we, as you would say _‘lit them up.’_ ”

Linebaugh scowled again, and poured them each another glass of wine.

“I dropped two of the three warriors before they had a clue what was happening, then I set B— _Haitei_ —on the last. The shaman started hurling shards of ice into the darkness—that was quite a sight, too—but he was just shooting randomly. When he turned to deal with Haitei—” Mozu made a soft popping noise and pointed at the base of her skull.

“The ice creature just stood there stupidly, so I grabbed a log and snuck up on it, and _wham!_ knocked it right into the bonfire.”

Covering his mouth, Linebaugh tried to stifle a laugh but failed. He sighed, “And so ya grabbed yerself a trophy.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Ya better flesh out that story a bit more—folks’ll love this one.” He rolled his eyes. “Fuckin’ Svanir.”

“Yes, but, listen,” she raised her voice. “After I took my trophy, threw up, and rifled through their supplies, I followed their tracks.”

Linebaugh’s hand froze as he reached for the cover of the frying pan again. “Ya what now?” he growled as his eyes narrowed.

“We followed their tracks and found the rest of their host just before dawn. About twenty-five to thirty men.”

He mechanically removed the pan from the heat and set it aside, then rested his hands on the table and shoved his face in hers. Mozu gulped and shrank from him.

Linebaugh asked her, very quietly and calmly, “Think about everything I taught ya, then answer this question. Did that there camp look like a permanent settlement, or like they were just passin’ through?”

Mozu was quiet, wracking her brain as she took another gulp of wine.

“It looked like a supply depot,” she concluded.

Linebaugh jerked back at the unexpected answer, and stared at the floor for a very long moment as he held his chin. “Ohfuckno,” she heard him mumble angrily as he turned away, hands moving methodically as he plated their dinner. When he turned back, he placed a plate of venison and mushrooms braised in wine, slow-cooked greens, and warm, crusty bread in front of her.

“This looks amazing,” she cooed.

Linebaugh sat and sipped at his wine, not touching his food. Mozu hovered over her own plate, waiting for him to eat, while he was lost in thought.

“D’ya think,” he asked at length, “that ya could find this camp again, or at least tha general area?”

Poking at a mushroom with her fork, Mozu felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I . . . probably . . . yes? Yes.”

“How’d ya feel about a trip down ta Jorg’s tonight?”

Mozu sighed and turned her attention to her dinner as she picked up the knife and cut into the tender, juicy meat. “If you want to ask if I’ll lead a raiding party to deal with the Svanir, just ask.” She chewed and her eyes rolled back in her head. “Oh. This is so, so good.”

Linebaugh raised an eyebrow at her, “Ya seem awful calm about the whole idea.”

“Contrary to popular opinion, I can actually put two and two together,” she chewed another bite and mumbled with her mouth full. “The dragons are the enemy of all life on Tyria, and the Svanir, who worship Jormag, are trying to encroach on this valley. Heimdall’s Lament is my home, too, now, and they won’t set one foot on our soil if I have any say in the matter.”

Focused on a wily mushroom cap, she missed the fierce look of pride that passed across Linebaugh’s face.

Mozu swallowed and frowned up at Linebaugh, “I suspect you’ll take this opportunity to postpone our chat?”

He placed a hand over his heart, “Soon as this is over, an’ we’re home safe an’ sound, I’ll tell ya everything.”

“Ugh, don’t say it like that. It sounds so ominous.”

“Well, they might’a found yer handiwork by tha time we get there, an’ killin’ folks is always dangerous business—worse if they think yer comin’ fer ‘em.”

“Well, just follow my lead, then, and don’t do anything stupid,” she winked at Linebaugh, and dug into her meal with gusto. He laughed helplessly and shook his head as he, too, picked up his fork and knife.

 

_Spirits save me, this is what being a child must be like._

                Mozu peered around the smithy as Linebaugh unfurled an old hide map on the massive anvil that stood before her.  Perched upon an overturned half-barrel, she studied the crude drawings, while all around her loomed a score of grim and sober norn faces. Olaf sat at her elbow, worry quite evident on his face, and no one spoke a word.

                Light and noise from Jorg's tavern spilled into the room as Hákon Stonefist and his wife, Gerta, slipped inside.  Hákon barred the door as Gerta, her hand resting upon the butt of a holstered pistol, strode over to stand near Mozu and Linebaugh.

                She nodded curtly to the gathering. "Sorry we're late—we had to drop the children off with their grandmother."

                "No worries." Linebaugh clapped his hands together quietly as he surveyed the assembled faces. "That's everyone, so let's get this meetin' goin'.

                "Some'a you obviously got the messages I sent ahead, and some'a you got dragged away from yer ale kickin' an' screamin'. Either way, thanks fer comin'."

                The scar-faced man that Mozu recalled from her first night at Jorg's raised a mug in salute to Linebaugh, who scowled. "'Cept fer Einarr—tryin' ta get that thing away from him was like tryin' ta get a wolf pup away from its ma.

                "Anyhow, Mozu came back from her first trip up ta the foothills with a bit o' info I think this crew needs ta hear. Moz?"

                All eyes turned to her as she reached beneath her bearskin cloak and tossed the silver-bound ponytail upon the map.

                Olaf stretched out a hand and held the clasp up to the light of a single lantern that swayed overhead. He donned a pair of reading spectacles. "Svanir?" he asked finally, peering at Mozu over the rim of his glasses.

                She nodded, and a grumble passed though the assembled crowd. "Up above the snow-line, around here," Mozu pointed at a spot on the map northwest of where her own home lay—the foothills above the far northern edge of the valley.

                "One shaman, three warriors, and an elemental,” she explained. Einarr spat in disgust, "Well, seems like a lot of us for four men and their toy, but let's head up and take care of them before they think we'll let them trespass on our land unpunished."

                "Easy, friend," Linebaugh held up a hand. "Mozu already took care of _that_ problem."

                The assembled norn voiced their approval, and Gerta clapped her on the back roughly. "Well done, Butcher!"

                "But," Mozu called above the sudden din, "they're not alone up there. You can't see it on this map," she ran a finger along the hide, “but there's a defile hereabouts between two low ridges. A supply camp, and roughly thirty Svanir. I—we think they’re advance scouts.”

Hákon let out a low whistle as he cracked his neck, "I might actually break a sweat." A few of the norn laughed and bantered back and forth for a moment before Linebaugh cleared his throat loudly. Silence reigned under that withering gaze, and he pointed toward the door. "Any o' you fuckin' idjits wanna head off to an early grave, get movin' now. We'll make sure yer remains make it back home when we get there an’ deal with this properly.”

Hákon stared at his feet like a scolded schoolboy and Gerta rolled her eyes at him. Einarr moved from the group to unbar the door noisily. Linebaugh looked incredulous. "Einarr Tenbears—seriously?"

"What? I'm empty," he held up his mug and gave it a shake. "Fill me in when I get back."

Mozu snickered as the door closed gently behind him and even Gerta laughed at the expression on Linebaugh's face.

"Shaddap, all'a you."

Mozu scanned the faces around her once more, feeling, not for the first time, very out of place. Each member of the group that Linebaugh had called together was a battle-hardened and -tested warrior, with decades upon decades upon decades of combined fighting experience, from what he had told her about each of them. She was an inexperienced ranger-in-training who had survived a few battles of her own, either through luck or sheer stubbornness, and stood barely waist-high to the Snow Leopard shaman who leaned against a nearby support beam.

Mozu tried desperately to ignore the intense stare of the stone-faced and scantily clad woman. Dressed in ornately decorated leathers with a snarling cat's head of silver at her ample breast, she stood at least a head taller than Linebaugh, and her eyes never once left the sylvari.

Finally, Mozu gave up and met the woman's gaze, smiling awkwardly. The towering norn nodded politely with no change of expression, and Mozu turned her attention back to the map before her. She took a deep breath to calm herself, then cleared her throat in a distinctly Linebaugh-esque manner. The room quieted once more.

"We leave tomorrow at sunrise from Linebaugh's homestead," she announced, "I will lead the expedition as far as—"

The door opened once more as Einarr slunk back into the smithy, a mug in each hand, and he closed the door behind him with a heel. Reaching through the crowd, he placed one mug before Mozu, and winked. She nodded her thanks and continued after taking a sip, trying not to laugh despite the seriousness of the occasion.

"I will lead the expedition as far as here," she regained her composure and pointed at the map again, "then we'll split into two groups. Gerta, you'll lead the main group that will attack from the southern ridgeline. Linebaugh and Einarr, choose three to go with you—you'll assault from the far northern end of the defile, here," she drew a crude sketch of the terrain upon a sheet of parchment quickly, "and hit them in the rear to cause confusion and cut off any who might run for help if there's another force of Svanir up there somewhere."

Mozu looked slowly around at the faces watching her and rested her palms upon the cool iron of the anvil. "Either way, we can't allow them to escape, and we can't allow them to set one foot upon this land. I'll be honest—there's no honor to be had in this fight. We'll slaughter them to a man, steal what we can carry away with us, burn the rest, and leave a warning for any Svanir who might find the camp later."

She straightened up, suddenly embarrassed at the bemused expressions on the faces of those around her. "I mean . . . if that's alright with all of you . . . I—"

Linebaugh gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze with one huge paw.

 "Is this really _her_ plan, or _yours_ , Linebaugh?" the stone-faced woman asked in a deep, rich voice. The room fell silent and the ranger seemed at a loss for words for once.

"This is my plan. If you have a better one, please," Mozu spread her hands placatingly. "I'll be the first to admit that everyone in this room is a thousand times the fighter that I am. I'm mostly concerned with everyone's safety, and making sure we all come back in one piece."

The norn woman regarded her silently for a long, uncomfortable moment, then looked to Linebaugh, an unreadable expression on her face. He simply placed his hands upon Mozu's shoulders and nodded.

"It is a fine plan, Butcher," she inclined her head toward Mozu. "We shall honor Snow Leopard, and litter the hills with the blood of the Svanir. Tales of our victory will be told around every hearth in Heimdall's Lament this winter and long into spring."

Heads bobbed in agreement, and Linebaugh raised his voice above the scattered conversations, "Until tomorrow mornin' then."

Hákon saluted grandly to Mozu as the assembled warriors began to file out, then spun on his heel and marched out the door after Gerta.

Einarr Tenbears jerked a thumb toward the door after him, "Stonehead."

Linebaugh nodded and looked to the shaman who still stood nearby, regarding the sylvari girl curiously. "Yngvildr?" She nodded at him, then reached out and clasped Mozu by the shoulder as she stared deeply into the girl's eyes. Mozu couldn't tear her gaze away from that fierce visage as the woman peered at her intently.

Yngvildr released her finally and nodded to the remaining norn as she made her way toward the door. "Until tomorrow."

Einarr looked back to Linebaugh and smirked. "Mozu." Linebaugh scowled, then nodded after a long moment had passed.

_Shit._

"Well, old boy, I'd best grab one more for the road, then hit the sack." Einarr clapped Linebaugh on the shoulder and nodded to Mozu and Olaf. "Butcher. Cap'n."

"Aye, I suppose we ought’a make it an early night, too. Thanks, Olaf." He shook the white-haired blacksmith's hand, and as Mozu extended her own hand, Olaf clasped it in an iron grip as he pulled her close.

"Bring them back safely," Olaf whispered in her ear. He attempted a smile, then thought better of it.

"I will."

"Good girl." He released her hand and ignored Linebaugh’s questioning gaze.

"Good night, Olaf," she said, very seriously.

"Good night, Little Flower."

The door closed quietly behind the sylvari girl, and Olaf rose with a grunt. He limped around aimlessly for a few minutes, when his hand found the tang of a half-finished sword that lay upon his workbench. He brandished it in one meaty fist for a moment, recalling his younger days when men fell before his blade like so much wheat before a scythe, and his face twisted with rage. He threw the blade down with a clang, shockingly loud in the silence of the empty smithy, and fell back into his chair with an angry sigh as he cursed the spirits, the six gods, and any other deities he could recall.

 

Smoke hung thickly in the air, acrid and foul. Scattered upon the churned earth of the defile lay more than two dozen corpses—hacked, bludgeoned, feathered with arrow shafts, or burnt crisp and black.

Gerta Stonefist swept a stream of liquid fire across the tents and other makeshift dwellings, along with any supplies and foodstuffs that wouldn’t fit upon one of the two undamaged sledges they’d found. The flames roared and crackled around her as she focused on her task and tried vainly to ignore the sounds of their wounded commander.

Mozu howled and bit deeply into a leather glove as a grey-haired and craggy faced norn applied a red-hot iron to a terrible wound in her side. Einarr Tenbears stood off to one side, watching, his hands gripping Linebaugh’s shoulders as he spoke quietly into the ranger’s ear. Tears ran unheeded down Linebaugh’s cheeks as he prayed for the girl to pass out, and, as always, his prayers went unanswered.

The deed done, Yngvildr, spattered with bright, golden blood, took the limp and sweating sylvari in her arms as if she were a child, and carried Mozu toward the one remaining tent. Yngvildr’s head turned slowly as she moved the flap aside, and the shaman fixed Linebaugh with the most hate-filled look Einarr had ever seen, and even he was suddenly speechless.

Linebaugh slid to his knees and buried his face in his hands. Einarr crouched down beside him, a comforting hand upon the older norn’s back.

Hákon Stonefist wiped Svanir blood from his face as he joined his comrades. Einarr braced himself for the huge warrior’s usual idiocy, and was shocked when Hákon, too, crouched down beside Linebaugh without a word. The corners of his mouth were downturned and trembling, and his brow furrowed deeply as they listened to Mozu whimper in agony. He and Einarr exchanged a helpless look and half-carried Linebaugh away, leading him well out of earshot.

Gerta grit her teeth as she watched them go, and she would swear when pressed later that the tears in her eyes were simply due to the smoke and drifting ash.

 

Mozu awoke with a start in the warmth and comfort of her own bed, disoriented and terribly drowsy. It took the first stabbing pain in her side to assure her that the horrific dream of mud and snow and blood and fire and death had, in fact, been no dream. As she cried out, Linebaugh jerked awake in the chair next to the bed.

                She took one look at his kind and stern face, lined with worry, and stretched out her arms imploringly as she sobbed his name. Linebaugh took her gently in his own arms and buried his face in her hair.

                “Shh, lass. Yer home now.” He pressed his lips to her forehead and put a hand on the side of her face as he looked into her eyes. “Home. Safe. Everyone else, too. _Everyone_.”

His words took few moments to register and she regarded him blankly, until she suddenly screwed up her face and put her hands to her eyes as she wept uncontrollably.

As the storm subsided, Mozu grimaced and laughed weakly, “Oh, gods, I hurt.”

 “Here, drink this.” He held out a glass of slightly cloudy water to her.

Mozu gulped greedily at the cool water, and made a face at the strange aftertaste. Within a few minutes her head began to swim in a not altogether unpleasant fashion while the pain in her side receded.

 “We won?” she asked eventually, forcing a smile.

Linebaugh nodded, “We won, aye. Team Einbaugh—not my idea, by tha way—got tha shit end o’ tha stick, though. Svanir figgered out right quick what we were doin’, and a few threw themselves at Gerta’s team—no name, far as I know—ta hold ‘em off while most o’ them Svanir came chargin’ right at us.”

She was quiet for a few moments and frowned. “It’s all a bit hazy.”

“We fought like hell is about tha long an’ short o’ it. Luckily, Gerta’s team broke through pretty quick once she put that flamethrower ta work.”

“What happened? To me, I mean.”

“Oh, ah, well, far as I remember, we’d killed about a half-dozen or so o’ them dragon lovers, when one’a them got through yer guard and caught ya under yer ribs with his axe.”

Mozu put a hand to her side beneath the furs and looked away. Linebaugh couldn’t help but laugh.       

“Don’t go lookin’ all ashamed, lass,” he cajoled, and gently shook her knee. “Ya got madder’n I’ve ever seen ya. Kicked him in right in tha balls, yanked that axe outta his fuckin’ hand, an’ brained him with tha damned thing. Screamin’ an’ cursin’ tha whole time. Fuck me, if that weren’t a sight. Hell, it took ya another couple o' minues an’ three more o’ them dolyak-fuckers afore ya up and keeled over. Honestly, we only thought he musta scratched ya, an’ were wonderin’ if ya were gonna leave any fer us.”

He laughed again, then fell silent, starting down at his hands.

 “What’s wrong?”

Linebaugh shook his head and Mozu stretched out her arm, placing her tiny hand in his. His fingers slowly closed around it, and he smirked ruefully. “Aside from tha obvious?”

“What’s wrong?” she insisted.

“Mmm. Yngvildr.” Linebaugh shrugged and hung his head. “We ain’t been on great terms for a long while now. She took care o’ ya when ya got injured, by tha way.”

He opened his fist and started at the small, blue hand within. “ _Death comes to claim all those you love, s_ he told me; cursed me. I figgered she ain’t ever stopped blamin’ me for her sister’s death—an’ her niece’s—an’ with ya gettin’ hurt now . . .”             

 Mozu cocked her head, trying to work something out through a morass of fuzzy thoughts. Her eyelids drooped and she smiled up at him.

“She’s my sister-in-law. Hildur’s sister,” he explained.

Mozu nodded slowly as she closed her eyes. “Oh.”

“Anyhow, missy. Time for ya ta rest an’ stop worryin’.” He refilled the glass, added something from a small vial, and set it next to the bed. “Drink this when ya wake up again. Sleep’s by far tha best thing for ya right now. If ya need anythin’, just yell.”

Linebaugh tucked the brown corduroy bear beneath the covers with her and quietly slipped from the room. As he turned to close the door behind him, he heard a soft and sleepy voice from the depths of the dimly lit chamber.

“I love you, too,” Mozu murmured and was soon fast asleep.

 

“You promised you’d tell me whatever it is that you seem so determined to keep secret when we got back from dealing with the Svanir.” Mozu pointed a fork at Linebaugh over dinner, suddenly remembering that ‘something important’ that had been escaping her. “You _promised._ ”

“Did I now?” Linebaugh looked genuinely surprised. Mozu glared at him, and he held up his hands, “Fine, fine. After dinner.”

“ _NOW_.”

“EAT.” He slapped the table with his open hand. “Gods. It weren’t me that decided ta get all up close an’ personal with tha business end o’ an axe head.”

“At least I didn’t slip and fall in the mud like some big oaf when we charged them.”

“Ya know, I kin drag ya back up ta them hills an’ see if I kin find another Svanir ta finish tha job an’ turn ya into kindlin’. What with winter comin’ an’ all.”

“ _Try it and ye’ll git up close an’ personal with the business end o’ this_ ,” she mocked Linebaugh, brandishing the fork in his direction again.

He laughed heartily as they ate, and peered at her as they washed up afterward. “How’d ya feel about a trip down ta Jorg’s tonight?”

Mozu slung the dishtowel over one shoulder as she climbed upon a low stool to put the dishes away. “I could use a drink or three,” she wiped her hands, then snapped the towel at Linebaugh, “not to mention a change of company.”

“You an’ me both,” he grinned. “First, though, I reckon it’s time for that chat.”

 

As Mozu crept down the stairs to the large hidden room beneath the house, she joked halfheartedly and strained her eyes in the darkness. “Beneath the bed? I’d’ve thought you’d hide a secret door in one of the wardrobes.”

Linebaugh snorted, “Most folks’d think that, too, which is why they both have one—‘cept openin’ those’ll only get ya a face full’a explosives an’ ball bearings.”

“Lovely.”

Something sparked in the gloom, and a tiny flame leapt to life. Linebaugh put the glass cover back on the lamp and gestured grandly with a smirk. “Welcome ta tha Order o’ Whispers—Heimdall’s Lament chapter.”

A tattered, ancient banner hung on the wall behind him, above the large workbench—faded maroon and bearing a snaking, golden ribbon forming three connected circles in a vertical line. Bookshelves and neatly organized scrolls lined one wall, while the other was given over to an armory that could have easily equipped a large mercenary force.

“The, uh, what?” Mozu replied as she tried to take in her surroundings.

Linebaugh spun one of the workbench chairs around and sat, reaching into a low drawer as he did so. He withdrew a dusty bottle of brown liquor and two equally dusty glasses as he nodded at the other chair. Mozu’s eyes roamed over the impressive array of swords, axes, warhammers, bows, pistols, rifles, and other less identifiable weapons lining the western wall.

“What’s this?” She picked up a heavy cylinder of dull, painted metal emblazoned with the symbol of a gear. Another piece of metal, strange and flat, capped the device and ran down its side. It was held in place with what looked like a bent hairpin with a ring at the end.

“PUT THAT DOWN NOW,” Linebaugh barked and shot to his feet.

Mozu gingerly put the device back in the box with its ilk and clasped her hands behind her back. Linebaugh straddled his chair again and wrestled the cork from the whiskey bottle. “Them little fellers are also fer givin’ folks a face full’a explosives an’ ball bearings.”

She took a hasty step away from the wooden crate and joined Linebaugh at the workbench.

“Cheers.” He raised his glass.

Mozu raised her own glass distractedly, still peering around the room. “So, not to sound unappreciative for showing me your, uh . . . this, but it doesn’t really answer anything.”

Linebaugh pursed his lips. “Ya heard o’ tha Vigil?”

“Sort of. They’re a big mercenary company that fights against the minions of the elder dragons, right?”

“More or less, aye. Tha Order o’ Whispers has been around a helluva lot longer, but tha goal, these days anyway, is more or less tha same. We just work behind the scenes— _from tha shadows_ , if ya wanna be all penny dreadful about it.”

Mozu’s head came around and her eyes shone. She suddenly hung on his every word.

“Political dealin’s, information gatherin’, spyin’, blackmailin’, assassinations—whatever it takes ta unify tha peoples o’ Tyria against tha dragons. It’s an ugly business, but it sure as shit works. Most o’ tha time, anyway.

"Tha Vigil’s like a hammer. Big, blunt, no subtlety. Tha Order is more like . . . hell, I dunno. Somethin’ precise. Yer bow, fer instance.”

“So you’re an _assassin_?” She felt a bit of shock at the revelation.

“I’m a messenger.”

Mozu was quiet for a moment, then laughed, snorted, and had to cover her mouth with her hand as she set the glass down on the tabletop.

“. . . and a spy,” Linebaugh added in a slightly hurt tone.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, it’s just that you seem so not messenger-like,” she giggled.

“Would I regain my status in yer eyes if I told ya that most o’ my messengin’—and spyin’—were done in Elona?”

She stopped laughing quite suddenly and her mouth hung open. “How—”

“Nope.” He made a chopping gesture with his free hand.

“But—”

“No. Seriously.”

Mozu sipped at her drink and let the matter lie for now, but her imagination ran wild as she scanned the bunker again.

“So, listen,” Linebaugh said softly after a long silence, “I got a message myself while ya were away on yer campin’ trip—new orders.”

Mozu suddenly went cold, and she set her glass down again as gently as possible.

He struggled to find the words he was seeking, and finally gave up. “Come spring I gotta—I got work ta do.”

“I see.” She stared at a spot on the wall behind him very intently and asked as nonchalantly as she could manage, “For how long?”

“Mmm. Could be half a year.”

“I see,” Mozu couldn’t control the hitch in her voice. Linebaugh reached across and laid his hand upon hers.

“There’s someone I want ya ta meet,” he forced a cheerful tone. “My partner, afore she—well, retired ain’t the right word, but she ain’t doin’ field work these days. Anyhow, I’d like ya ta spend that time down in Divinity's Reach with her. Change o’ scenery might do ya some good, an’ maybe she kin turn ya into a polite young lady, or at least keep ya outta trouble.”

She remained quiet and stared at the back of his huge hand, fighting to control the tears which threatened to overwhelm her at any moment.

“I think, um, I think ye’d do very well in tha Order, Mozu. After readin’ what I wrote ta Mi—er, my old partner, she thinks ya might be a good candidate as well. I mean, no one’s tryin’ ta force ya into anything , an’ gods know I ain’t gonna tell ya what ta do with yerself. I just think ye’d get along well with her, an’ I’d feel terrible leavin’ ya up here alone . . .”

Mozu lost the battle as Linebaugh squeezed her hand.

“I’m sorry, lass. I didn’t wanna spring this on ya, but fucked if I could figger out a better way o’ doin’ it an’ I pretty well suck with words, as ya well know.”

She slowly pulled her hand back, and, mustering as much dignity as she could, calmly walked up and out of that hidden lair. Mozu shut the door to her room, lay upon the bed, and sobbed silently and violently into the well-loved stuffed bear.

 

Her eyes still red and raw, Mozu and Linebaugh walked hand in hand along the old, overgrown cart track that led the way toward their destination. The question had been gnawing at her for the past two hours until she couldn’t stand it any longer. Mozu stopped dead in her tracks so abruptly that she jerked Linebaugh to a halt.

“How long do we have?” she blurted.

He sighed, “Three months here, tops. Then we gotta head fer Divnity’s Reach, which might take another month, dependin’ on tha weather –”

“Then teach me. Everything. Make me strong like you. An asset, and not a . . . hinderance.” Mozu turned her face from Linebaugh, unable to meet his gaze suddenly. “Prove Yngvildr wrong,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

Linebaugh was silent. When she finally tore her gaze from the sky to look at him, he nodded grimly and his eyes glistened. “I will. I told ya ages ago I would.” He cleared his throat. “All tha same,” he said in a quiet voice, “you have my oath.”

As they approached the tavern, they remarked on how unusually quiet it seemed.

“Did we pick a bad night? Is there ever actually a bad night for you people and drink?”

“Dunno.” Linebaugh eyed the place suspiciously, “Hope everything’s ok.”

As they turned the corner of the smithy cautiously, Mozu stopped dead again. Better than half a hundred norn were gathered, some fully armored, and as one, they drew and raised their weapons above their head, and their shout echoed throughout every corner of the valley. 

“ _BUTCHER! BUTCHER! BUTCHER!_ ”

A great bonfire was lit while tables, benches, and kegs were dragged from Jorg’s out into the courtyard. Mozu covered her mouth with her hands, stunned and bewildered. Olaf hobbled to her side and took her by the arm again. He whispered something into her ear, and she wrapped her arms as far around the rotund smith as she could.

 

Linebaugh stood apart, watching this girl, this strange sylvari creature—his friend, and so much more than that. The thought of turning this (What was it that Olaf always called her? _Little Flower?_ ) into a tool for the greater good like himself seemed more and more wrong the longer he spent with her.

                He tried to remind himself, or maybe justify to himself, that he wasn’t pushing this life on her, and she had chosen for herself to follow him. What were her other options, though? She had no money, nowhere to go . . .

                Linebaugh shook his shaggy head. Hell, if she wanted to learn to work the forge and work for Olaf, or become a barmaid, or even the village idiot, he’d support her. No matter what decision she would eventually make, she would always have a home in Heimdall’s Lament.

                As he wrestled with his emotions and tried to imagine Mozu living the life he lived, other thoughts began to creep into his head again, intruding and insistent—thoughts that he had tried to avoid in recent days.

He hadn’t been sure of much in his life—only that his wife and daughter had been beautiful, inside and out; that Olaf was a shit captain and a fair blacksmith; that the sun was warm on his face and the wind across the valley sweet and cool; that what he did, he did for the good of all; and that Mozu’s friendship had given him a reason to face each day with a sense of adventure and mischief, rather than the indifference of simply continuing to exist out of habit and necessity.

And, so, he would forge her, hone her, and turn her into a weapon against the dragons, regardless of her affiliation with the Order of Whispers, and he swore to the spirits that he would temper her so well that even they could never take her from him. He would never see another loved one die, and Yngvildr be damned.

It slowly occurred to him that, one day, the sweet, stubborn, foolish, childlike girl that he watched caper about like an idiot, and who would probably drink far too much this night, would someday no longer be that girl anymore. He thought of the grave beneath the old, gnarled apple tree in his yard and wiped his eyes.

More kegs were tapped, mugs were raised, and once more the cry of “ _BUTCHER! BUTCHER! BUTCHER!_ ” rang out as Mozu downed her own flagon in one go. She let out a wild whoop, and called imperiously for another. Her one-time comrades in arms gathered round and toasted her good health again.

Linebaugh couldn’t help but laugh at the smiling faces illuminated in the dancing, leapingflames. “Ya were never a hinderance, lass.”

 

 


End file.
